"Yes, and now by some stroke of genius you've put your finger on the thing that matters. Sight. The beauty of the world. 'He's good, omnipotent, a father'--that's what the theologians have said. 'It's beautiful,' say you, and that's enough." "The gospel of sheer slothful material sentimentalism," put in Manning lazily. She flashed on him. "Rubbish," she cried. "That's not the gospel of the Beggar-Man, is it, Mr. Kestern?" "No," said Paul, "no, no, no; it's not that." "No, the glory of this is that it is positive. It strides forward. It builds; it----" "It builds what? Let's be practical. That sort of talk, up to the present anyway, has mostly built Agapemones." Muriel Lister frowned. "No," she said. "The Temple of Common Things." Arnold sucked his pipe. "I fear I can't follow so quickly," he retorted cynically. "You wouldn't. But, don't you see? This creed doesn't seek an æsthetic hybrid sensual beauty. When the beggar-man had his eyes opened, what was it seemed beautiful to him? Eh, what?" Paul smiled. "His three-legged stool," he said, "and his little hovel." "Exactly. Clay. The beauty of gold-brown earth." And Miss Lister relapsed into silence. "I still don't see the gospel," said Arnold. "You're born blind, then," retorted the girl. "Well," returned Arnold, "be a little more explicit. Get on with it." "A gospel that origins and ends don't matter and that we ought to be influenced by them not at all; that God is veiled, but the veil is good; that we are kin to all that is; that barriers are of our own making; that the urge of life within us is our guide; and that moralities and revelations and false spiritualities have themselves made sin. And," she added slowly, "that the true spiritual life consists in the pursuit of learning, experience and beauty, according to vocation, without fear and for themselves alone." "Fear?" queried Arnold. "Yes, without fear. The gospel of the Beggar-Man banishes fear. He knows right values. He knows he cannot be robbed of anything that matters. He fears no man; all men are brothers; all are blind beggars with potential sight; he has nothing but pity for your aristocrat, your millionaire." "'News from Nowhere'," chuckled Arnold. "True--with the path blazoned to it," she exclaimed. "It appears to be you and not Paul who is preaching anyway," put in Ursula, staring into the fire. "He will live it, and he will sing it--and you will paint it," cried Muriel. "Which reminds me," said Paul gravely, "that I've to go down to Claxted to-morrow." "Claxted?" "Yes, to my people. I've utterly neglected them lately. They don't even know I've written a play." "They will to-morrow," said Arnold, "if they read the newspapers." "Yes," Paul replied slowly, "I think they will." And was suddenly silent, with a silence that the little company knew to be significant. The firelight danced on his face. Ursula turned her head slowly and studied him. (2)